


So It Goes

by jellyfishline



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Dean POV, Depression, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, this is not a happy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1673231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyfishline/pseuds/jellyfishline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You were made out of the smoke, you know. Never the fire. That was dad’s. Never the spark. That was mom’s. And the ashes? Those were Sam’s. He got to rise. You were a byproduct. You were a sidekick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So It Goes

You were made out of the smoke, you know. Never the fire. That was dad’s. Never the spark. That was mom’s. And the ashes? Those were Sam’s. He got to rise. You were a byproduct. You were a sidekick.

Nobody cares bout the leftovers, but you’ll guzzle down anything they put on a plate for you. You were born hungry. You’d gnaw a bone for the marrow. Suck the shallow compliments right out of some stranger’s mouth. You talk tough, but truth is, you’re hollow bones and a bite inside. You’re nothing.

You wore dad’s jacket ‘cause without it you ain’t got shoulders. You’re shapeless. Spineless. You act tough, but only ‘cause it’s hard to fear for your life when you don’t have one in the first place. You died in that nursery. You were born dead. You can still smell it. The peeling plaster piss-bright lick of flame, the roll and roil of heat. It hits you sometimes out of a dream. Fire. It guts you like nothing else.

You’re in a stranger’s bed and you start crying. She asks what’s wrong and you can’t stop. You’re twenty-two. You’re four years old. Shows of kindness bring out the child in you. You try to keep things impersonal. You stay away from the people who smile too much.

You’re twenty-nine. You’re in Hell. You’re biting your name into the flesh of your heart. My name is Dean Winchester. My name is Dean Winchester. My name is Dean Winchester. You stop saying it, you’ll forget it.

Eventually you do. Eventually it’s just Sam. Sam. Sam. It’s not your name but you’ve got a claim to it. It has a claim on you. You feel the anchor down to where your marrow used to be.

Eventually it’s just no. No. No. Stop.

It doesn’t stop. Nothing ever stops.

Hell makes smoke rings out of you. Makes you bend and beg like a good little bitch.

You’re four years old. You can’t speak. Dad wants you to talk. He shakes you. Yells at you. Cries under the cover of his hands. He can’t. You can’t. There is no more talking here. Sammy cries and cries.

You’re three years old. Mommy tells you you’re getting a brother. Her lips are tight. Dad is silent at the other side of the table.

_A little brother?_ you ask, and she says yes. A little, baby brother. You’re excited. You want to teach him everything. You want to take care of him. Mommy says you can help. You’re proud. You know you’ve always been good at helping.

You’re five years old. You learn to talk again by whispering sweet things into Sammy’s ear. It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re okay.

You learn to talk by lying.

You’re twenty-nine. You’re coughing gravedirt out of your lungs. An angel tells you it was all for a purpose. You tell an angel to go screw himself. Fuck Heaven. Fuck everything. You’re done. You’re dead.

You’re three years old. Dad’s been gone for weeks. _It’s okay, Mom._ You wrap your arms around her legs. _Dad still loves you._

You’re twenty-nine. There’s fire in your dreams and corpse under your fingernails. Every time you pass a mirror you expect to see the bones protruding from your flesh. You’re a zombie. What’s dead should stay dead.

You’re nine years old. Dad’s been gone for weeks. _It’s okay, Sammy. Dad still loves you._

You’re thirty-one. Death gapes and howls at your doorstep. You put down your guns. Come on and take me, you tell Heaven. Take me for fuck’s sake. Let me die.

You’re nineteen. You study the barrel of your father’s gun. You think what if.

You’re nineteen. Sam needs you. You put the thought away.

You’re thirty-one. You’re crying into Lisa’s shoulder. Make it stop. Please. Make it stop.

She holds you until you can’t breathe.

You’re twenty-two. Sam’s been gone for weeks. There are bottles on the floor of the motel. You’re walking around them like eggshells.

You get mouthy one night. Dad throws a bottle at your head. It breaks.

You lock yourself in the bathroom. It’s Sam’s fault for leaving. It’s your fault for not being enough to make him stay.

You’re thirty-one. Lisa wants to talk about it. You don’t.

You’re twenty-two. Dad’s quiet. You slip out into the night and find someone warm. You kiss her. You touch her. Her hand is in your hair.

She pulls away. Her hand comes away bloody. You’re still not healed from the broken glass.

She asks you what happened. You can’t stop staring at the blood on her fingers.

Dad’s never left a mark before.

You’re twenty-five. You’re getting mouthy again. Dad drives away. He won’t answer his phone.

You’re scared.

You’re six years old. Dad comes home smelling like ashes. You vomit on his jacket. He makes you clean it up. You need to be tougher, Dean. You need to be stronger, Dean.

You’re twenty-two. It’s getting harder and harder to talk. You tell a stranger you’re in law school. You tell your father that you checked up on Sammy like he asked and Sam’s okay. Dad doesn’t answer. He hasn’t spoken to you in weeks. You want to put a hand on his shoulder. _It’s okay Dad,_ you want to say. _Sam still loves you._

You’re thirty-one. You put Dad’s jacket away. You can’t bear it anymore.

You’re twenty-seven. What’s dead should stay dead.

You’re twenty. You sleep with Vonnegut and a penknife under your pillow. So it goes. So it goes. So it goes.

You’re twenty-five. You put Vonnegut away.

You’re thirty-one. Lisa tells you you need to learn how to let things go.

You’re twenty-nine. The girl beneath you asks you to stop, please stop.

You pick up a knife.

Nothing ever stops.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to message me at jellyfishline.tumblr.com.


End file.
